Dammit, Granger!
by FancyFreeThinker101
Summary: Granger. Ever since her first day, her anal perfection has been a thorn in his side...and now, just as he's nearly rid of her, a new problem surfaces...
1. Chapter 1

Granger.

It's an odious word, a word that conjures up visions of hair in need of a severe combing, of essays that go on for pages and pages, and, worst and most detestable of all, of an air so insufferably know-it-allish that its very brilliance becomes sickening.

Granger.

A word synonymous with annoying mudblood, with obnoxious prude, and a multitude of other, loathsome things. A word that had, for six years, been neatly written at the top of every interminable essay handed to me (oh, how grudgingly I marked them with that all-too-deserved perfect score!), and was prefaced only by a dainty, anally correct 'H'.

Granger.

It was insufferable—absolutely intolerable—that now that word should begin to possess an unnamable fascination for me, a sort of muted aura which drew my attention even as I strove to despise it.

Granger.

I sat at my desk and looked at her, doing my utmost to despise her. Damn it all, the girl ought to be despised. She was entirely too clever, and far too aware of it, for her own good. I stared hard at her, trying to conjure up all the numerous, well-deserved taunts which had, for so long, flowed so silkily from my lips.

Know-it-all.

Insufferable.

Plain.

Granger was all of these things, all of these and several others which simple delicacy forbid me from voicing. Yet, at the moment, I was incapable of seeing it. _Why?_

It was not that she was particularly lovely at that instant—the clear silvery wisps rising from her potion were clearly detrimental to her already unmanageable mop, and her face, though, perhaps, not unattractive, was screwed up almost comically as she rapidly consulted her Potions book, running splotched fingers through her—_mane._ No, it was not that; Granger looked as she always looked, and whether that was a positive thing or not was not for me to say—yet. If this was so, then why were those well-honed arrows dulled, broken, and nowhere to be found? The answer came to me with a scowl of sheer disgust.

_I was going soft._

No. No, this would not be. I would _not_ be soft, whether for Granger or any other prattling brat who stepped foot in my classroom. My job was to teach, and I knew by now that learning entailed tears, and sweat, and often blood. I was not here to coddle and smile and pass out sweets; I would leave _that_ task to Gilderoy Lockhart, and the millions of fools like him, convinced that, so long as your students adored you, you were a superb teacher. Imbeciles, all of them. Quickly, I averted my gaze from the frustrating Granger to Potter.

Ah, Potter.

_There_ was an easy boy to hate—Potter, with the absurd cowlick of his bantam-cock father, and the wide green eyes of—of her…but I was resolved not to think of that. No, I would concentrate on all of the despicable qualities of Potter. I let my gaze linger on his disheveled robes, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and his cloak fastened sloppily under one ear, and the unflattering streak of pixie blood on his cheek. Next to Granger, whose work was immaculate and whose potion was the precise shade of silver denoted in the textbook, Potter's blockheaded efforts looked yet more idiotic; _his_ concoction was nearly purple, and issuing puffs of foul steam. I smirked; yes, I would definitely enjoy grading Potter's work tonight. I could already taste the big, spiky D; I allowed my smirk to widen.

However, my comparative happiness was to be shortlived; the infuriating Granger approached, smartly carrying a vial of her faultless brew, and I was appalled with the way my eyes flickered over her quickly, from her long, coltish legs to her sensitive, candy-pink mouth. Foolishness, all of it! The girl was not even remotely nice-looking! She caught my eye, and I saw a flush, the same pale pink as the work of the imbecilic Mr. Finnigan, crawl into her cheeks; already, she anticipated a scathing remark. Consoling myself with a sneer, I read blindly over a sheaf of parchment until I heard her quick, harried pace retreat back to her place, with the mooning Weasley and the detestable Potter.

Unbidden, the thought came to me that she was worth more than that. More than them, her asinine companions.

Inexcusable. I stormed out of the dungeons after class that day without casting a backwards glance, leaving the bumbling students to stare, bereft of comment.

Granger.

Still, that one, hateful word rose to my lips, not nearly so dreadful as it should have been. Abruptly, I remembered that neat, perfect 'H', always correctly followed by a proportionally flawless period and never deviating an inch from the line on the top of the parchment.

_Hermione. The H stood for Hermione. _

I clenched my hands until the knuckles stood out in sharp contrast, white and bulky. Damn Hermione Granger, and damn the way she—her full, sensitive mouth, her eyes, flashing and dark and eager to prove herself, her well-cut profile, and the subtle lines of her body beneath those black robes and pull-over sweaters—returned, over and over, unwanted, unsought, to the forefront of my mind.

Granger, the loathsome know-it-all….Granger, the conceited pain in the ass…Granger, the bookish outcast, and rightfully so…

Or was it Hermione?

"Dammit!"

An inkpot fell with a high, clear clatter to the stone floor, spilling its thick black innards all over, till they encroached upon the edges of my robes. I was, at the moment, too furious to be concerned.

"Unacceptable!" I hissed, livid. "Idiot, do you know the repercussions of such absurdity?"

Of course I knew—I had read of teachers, sometimes in Hogwarts itself, who grew…_soft_ for some student or another and were, upon the discovery of their preference, immediately sent away, never to be hired again. I would not be the next victim of such a calamity.

And certainly not for one as unbearable as Granger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own NOTHING. I'm just playing with them. JK can have them back as soon as I'm done.**

I was so close to being rid of her.

Only a year and a half remained of her education, and then she would board the Hogwarts Express, and ride away, leaving me to my blank, dull, but very safe solitude. I had only to…control myself for just a little over a year.

_Granger...I swear, if this keeps up, I shall see to it you get a D on your next essay…_

I swept into the dungeons once more, staring straight ahead and savoring the immediate silence that heralded my arrival. Immediately Longbottom, the witless wonder in the back row, stopped his sniveling and merely began to tremble, already afraid of what was to come.

As he should be. Idiot boy.

A flick of my wand had the instructions written on the board, and even the dimmest ones grasped the intent of my brusque:

"Begin."

I stood at my desk and, with rare indulgence, allowed myself to stare at _her_, absorbing both the general descriptions and the finer points, those which I doubted her half-wit companions caught.

She was a girl of average height, just 16, perhaps, and thin—I was not yet so daft as to describe her as _slender_-, with certain softened lines suggestive of still-forming curves, and those quick, rather well-formed legs which were crossed delicately at the knee, one heel resting against her ankle. Her neck was cream-colored and arched nicely, and was, on this particular day, exposed for my perusal, as her hair, that troublesome beast, was tamed and piled on top of her head, held in place by a single quill. I reflected that it would be—rather pleasurable—to remove the quill, and watch her thick, nut-brown hair tumble down over her shoulders…

_You fool._

Hastily I dismissed such thoughts, and, burning with shame, continued to gawk, like an ill-mannered, pubescent school boy, at Granger.

Big, dark eyes, which had glints of gold in them….a nose that was simply a nose, if perhaps a bit too long for classical beauty….that expressive, sweet-lipped mouth, which was a rather tempting shade of rosy pink…a very determined chin….a smattering of freckles, like flecks of cinnamon, across the well-defined cheekbones…such was the face of Granger, bent intently over her work and unaware of the Humbertish musings of her heartless Potions teacher. Half-heartedly, I tried to use the old, discarded standbys.

Mudblood.

Stuck-up loud-mouth.

Absurd little egotist.

Damn it, why _now_ did they fail me; why _now_ did they seem flat, and without their usual bitter tang?

_Hermione…_

If I was not careful, I'd end up in the Ministry for inappropriate conduct towards a student.

"Professor?"

The clear, inquiring voice of _Granger_—not Hermione, dammit, not Hermione!—jolted me abruptly from my internal turmoil, and I approached her, concentrating on keeping my expression icy, deadpan.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" I stood at her desk, not allowing myself to stoop and draw nearer to her; she looked up at me and said, somewhat timidly:

"Sir, I've finished. May I turn it in now?"

"You may," I drawled, preparing to turn away.

"But Professor—" She reached out, and, quite on accident, her hand touched my own. A shock tingled up my arm; hastily, I withdrew my hand.

"What is it, Granger?" I spat, enraged that even the simplest touch of her hand could toy with me so. Damn this girl.

Shrinking back, with hurt and a little shock in her wide, dark eyes, my infuriating pupil said in a small voice:

"Professor, I—I only wanted to ask if—if this book is quite right—"

"You question the authority of your textbook, Miss Granger?"

"Well—yes," she went on determinedly, even as the cloddish Mr. Weasley motioned frantically for her to cease. "Y-you see, Professor, it says here to stir 7 times clockwise, and twice counterclockwise…but I found much better results when it was stirred counterclockwise 6 times, and three times clockwise…"

Again, as she spoke, she appealingly gave a fleeting touch to my hand; the hitch in my respirations sealed her fate.

"So, you believe yourself a finer potion maker than this author, Granger?" I snarled, backing a safe 2 feet away. Mr. Weasley abandoned her to her destiny and put his head on his desk. "I will not tolerate such audacity, particularly from such an unbearable know-it-all as yourself. 10 points from Gryffindor!"

"But—but sir—"

"Detention!" I hissed, incensed beyond reasoning. "For arguing with a teacher!"

And I pretended not to notice when the bewildered Miss Granger cried softly to herself for the rest of the class.

She came into my dungeon to serve her detention meekly enough, yet there was a slight defiant lift to her chin which bespoke of not a little anger—and directed towards myself, of course.

_Damn it all, Granger…this isn't my fault…_

"Sit, Miss Granger," I said coldly, gesturing towards a desk. She nodded and took a seat, her eyes flashing. I flicked my wand agitatedly, and a piece of parchment and a quill appeared on her desk.

"You will write 'I will respect authority' and you will do so…" 20 times. Fifty. One hundred and fifty. But one look at her face, at the tear stains barely perceptible beneath her eyes and the little flush on her cheeks, and I felt myself softening once more. "You will do so 30 times. After that, you may go."

She nodded stiffly, and bent over her work. Preparing for an hour of resentful silence, I sighed quietly and tried to interest myself in a book. It was to no avail; against my will, my eyes would wander over to her desk, and, horrifyingly, run up and down her, while in my mind I saw myself going to her, placing my hands on her shoulders…sliding my fingers beneath her bulky sweater and removing it…stooping and whispering "Hermione" into her ear…running a naughty hand beneath her robes, over her bare shoulders….pressing my mouth to her obstinate jaw…

"Professor?"

My terrible, lovely fantasies shattered at the sound of her voice, carefully polite yet barely masking a faint tremble. I forced myself to glare.

"Yes, Granger?"

"May I—may I ask you a question?"

I ought to have told her no, that this was not a time for chitchat. But, fool that I was, I was intrigued by her, by what she wanted to ask, and thus said:

"You may."

Her question was my undoing.

"Why don't you like me?"

I paused, and for a moment stared at her, scared and defiant and waiting for answer.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why don't you like me? Is it simply because I'm a Gryffindor?"

"That is entirely off topic, Miss Granger; kindly return to your work."

But Hermione—the set, clever siren I could no longer mentally call Granger—just shook her head and grit her teeth, standing up and tossing down her pen.

"No! I want to hear why you don't like me! What did I ever do to you? …I-if you please, sir," suddenly recalling her position as student and my own as teacher. I tried desperately to think of some way to quash this dangerous topic now, whilst I still could—but no ideas presented themselves, and I was left with a feeble:

"Whatever gave you the idea that I don't like you?"

She scoffed at this, and I didn't blame her; for six years I had done my best to make her experience in Potions a hell on earth. It was clear we were not on amicable terms.

"Do you honestly think I'm that stupid?" she demanded, her voice rising now. "I've been here for six years, and all I've ever gotten from you is disapproval. All I've ever done is try to be good enough for you, but do you appreciate it? No, you simper over that prat, Malfoy!"

My blood was boiling by now; was the girl truly dim enough to think I disliked her? Did she not see the pain that stabbed me every class, just watching her and knowing it was a doomed love? _No,_ I thought, calming myself. _Not dim…just naïve. She's still very young._

"Do not speak to me in such a manner, Miss Granger!" I snarled, watching as she glared daggers at me, no longer afraid. "I am not Potter or Weasley to meekly stand a lashing by your tongue! And do not presume to know my feelings!"

But I had said too much; Granger—who was I trying to fool? **Hermione**—just looked at me, her eyes a little uncertain. When she spoke, it was in a quiet, clear tone which permitted no lies.

"And what are your feelings?"\

I did not deign to reply with words.

Here, reader, is where I truly lost my mind.

I, Severus Snape, renowned teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, kissed Hermione Granger, my pupil. We had, by this point, been standing close to each other, both angry beyond reason, and it only required a few quick steps for me to approach her, take her by that pale, set jaw which had begun to fascinate me and press my desperate mouth to her own, soft, slightly open one. She gasped at my kiss, but, to my pulsing ecstasy, did not turn away, or try to extricate her waist from my arms. Nor did she stand stiff as a board and offer me no response.

Reader, Hermione Granger kissed me in return.

Her hands meshed into my hair, and her arms snaked around my neck, pulling me closer to her utterly forbidden little body. As the stars exploded with blinding rays of silvery brilliance, and the planets collided in the galaxy, and the moon fell to the ground, I pulled away, for just a moment, to murmur:

"Figure it out, Hermione."

**FIN_, _**

_(Unless I think of a bit more)_

_Please read and review!_


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